


Reunion

by deviltakethehindmost



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:16:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deviltakethehindmost/pseuds/deviltakethehindmost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morse spends any evening thinking back on times long gone by. Then an unexpected face from those times appears on his doorstep at two in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sad about Jakes so I wanted to write something that gave a bit more closure. Don't judge me.

It's a dark, cold winter night and Morse is relaxing with his feet up, listening to the third act of Wagner's 'Die Walküre'. His jag sits in the drive way with the very beginnings of frost forming on the windscreen. The remnants of a glass of scotch is balanced on the arm of his chair, where it is all but forgotten. In moments like this Morse is almost content, he is sealed off from the outside world, giving his mind time to slow somewhat. He isn't the young man he once was and the never ending stream of often useless trains of thought, leave his exhausted. 

For someone so used to thinking about every single detail, Morse was surprised to find that middle age snuck up on him without him giving it more than a second thought. To him it didn't feel that long since he was Thursday's protege; feeling sorry for Strange and trying his best to ignore Jakes. He supposed it was twenty years since that had started to trail off into an end. Jakes had left for America. Thursday was gone. Only Strange remained but he wasn't the daft, likable idiot of years gone by. He had grown up. It was strange to think he missed those days.

With thoughts of the old days in mind, Morse drifted off into a light sleep. Undoubtedly he would wake up with a terrible back from sleeping in the chair. At that moment he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

An hour or so later, Morse had fallen into a much deeper sleep and it took numerous hard knocks at the door to wake him. He awoke with a start, knocking his glass from the armchair and waited for the crash as it smashed into pieces on the ground. Thankfully it just landed with a dull thud.

A quick glance at the clock told him that this was probably not a social call, which mean that it had to be a case. Morse didn't have enough friends or family for there to be that sort of emergency. He just about managed to drag himself to his feet and stumble to the door. After a number of failed attempts, he managed to unlock, then open the door.

“Hello.”

Morse cast a quick glance up and down the stranger in the doorway. He prayed to no god in particular that this wasn't some lunatic intent on harassing him. 

“Aren't you going to let me in?”

The man spoke as if they knew each other well and yet in the dim light, he could not make out any features that he recognised. Who was this odd man that turned up at two o'clock in the morning expecting an invite inside?

“Surely you must recognise me!” the man exclaimed, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. 

As he lit the cigarette he stepped slightly more into the light and the realisation hit Morse like a herd of cattle. He was meant to be a bloody detective!

“Glad to see you're still as sharp as ever,” he laughed, noticing Morse's epiphany, “So can I come in now or am I to be forever relegated to the doorstep?”

Still not quite capable of speech Morse stepped away to let the other man in. They made their way into the sitting room Morse had so recently vacated and stood in silence.

“Why are you here?” Morse asked.

“I was in the area for work and saw your name in the paper. Thought I'd drop in on an old friend,” he replied, as if it was totally obvious.

“Were we friends?”

The man laughed at that, before taking a long draw on his cigarette. Morse watched him closely and found that his mannerisms were exactly the same as he'd always remembered.

“I suppose not,” he smiled, exhaling smoke as he did, “Got the addresses for some of the other boys but you're the only one I found myself wanting to visit.”

“Where's your wife?”

“Haven't seen her since about a year after we set foot in America. Ran away to be with some bloody cowboy,” he said but to Morse there was no bitterness in his voice, “Only went in the first place so I could do right by her.”

“Why didn't you come back? What have you been doing for the past twenty years?”

“You're full of questions tonight, aren't you?” he replied with a smirk, “Did a bit of farm labouring, realised that wasn't quite my cup of tea. Then because of a chance meeting I found myself working as a private detective.”

“So that's why you're here? A case?”

This time Jakes didn't reply straight away. He glanced down at the discarded glass and left Morse wishing he'd thought to pick it up. The last thing he needed was Jakes reappearing after twenty years to lecture him about his drinking habits. And that is all it was; a habit. He could stop whenever he damn well wanted.

“The company has done well across the pond and they want to expand. Sent me over to London to have a look at some offices and recruit some good detectives,” he explained.

“Doesn't explain why you're in Oxford though.”

“God, you are dense sometimes, Morse,” Jakes snapped.

“What?”

“I need to recruit some good detectives,” he repeated, more slowly this time.

“And you need some recommendations?”

“No, Morse. That's not what I'm saying.”

And that was when it finally dawned on Morse what Jakes was asking. While he was lost in thought, Jakes bent down and picked up the errant glass, then set it down on the table. It was nice to see Jakes hadn't lost his distaste for Morse's untidiness. 

“We need a few brilliant detectives to head the London branch. Twenty years ago you were one of the greatest I'd ever seen, I imagine you're even better now.”

“Yes, I am rather good, aren't I?” Morse grinned, recovering enough to walk over to where the bottle of Scotch was sitting, “Would you care for a drink?”

“I'd much prefer you accepted my offer first,” Jakes replied, “And don't pretend you've got ties here that you can't leave behind. The state of this room is enough to show that you're living alone.”

“Oxford is all I've known,” Morse said, quietly, “Hell, it's all I've ever wanted to know!”

Jakes walked over to accept the drink that Morse was now holding out, his arm outstretched. It didn't stop the other man from standing much closer than was indeed necessary. 

“I never thanked you for the gift,” he announced, speaking much more softly now.

“You didn't have to. We weren't exactly the sort for thank you cards.”

“No, we weren't really the sort for communication at all,” he smiled again.

And Morse knew exactly what he meant by that. Of course, he was referring to what had began in the aftermath of Blenheim when Morse was released from prison. When they'd been at the pub and Morse had invited Jakes back to his for another Scotch. They'd both known what would happen, it had only been a matter of time really. Jakes had shoved him against the closed door and pressed their lips together. That and more had happened countless times after that. It wasn't anything but in a way, it was something. Not that either of them ever mentioned it. 

“Sometimes I thought about coming back,” he admitted, “I missed whatever we had.”

“Don't say that,” Morse replied, taking a long drink of Scotch, “You're starting to sound sentimental, of all things.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“Yes, I think it would.”

They stand in silence after that, neither quite sure what direction the conversation should take. Jakes has aged quite well, despite his vices. His hair was thinner but with very little grey and his face only sported a few wrinkles. Morse can't bear to look at him any longer so he goes to sit in his armchair. Jakes followed his lead and sat down on the sofa. He watched carefully as Jakes surveyed the room, pausing only to look at the record collection. 

Not for the first time Morse began to think about what would have happened if Jakes hadn't all but abandoned him. They could never have been properly together but they could have been something. Their friends would have turned a blind eye, he's sure.

“You didn't have to leave.”

Jakes laughed at that.

“Oh but I did. I had to at least try and be normal. It took me a long time to admit to myself that I didn't really like women.”

“I'm sure that must make things a lot easier, my life seems to just be a series of failed love affairs,” he chuckled and Jakes raised an eyebrow.

“With woman?”

“And some men. But yes, mainly woman,” he replied.

Jakes raised his eyebrow again but tried to hide it behind his drink.

“What was that look?” Morse asked.

“Always thought you'd be the most queer out of us with your poetry and opera,” he muttered.

“Are you really going to argue with me about that of all things?” 

“No, suppose not,” Jakes huffed.

Morse really did want to take Jakes up on his offer and flit off to London at the drop of a hat. He wanted a tiny bit of happiness. But Oxford had a strange, insistent grip on him. It wasn't like they would just resume things where they left off anyway, they weren't the passionate young men of twenty years ago.

“You're not going to come to London with me, are you?” he asked, a sad sort of grimace twisting his features.

He shook his head as Jakes downed his drink and stood, ready to take his leave. After a few moments Morse stood too and began to follow him back to the door. Then suddenly Jakes turned back around to face him. He produced a business card from his pocket, then tucked into the pocket of Morse's rumpled shirt. With a pat he looked up at Morse.

“London isn't far from here,” he said, “I'm going to keep phoning until you meet me for a drink or maybe one of your fancy operas.”

“What's the card for then?” Morse asked.

“In case you change your mind,” Jakes replied with a wink.

Then he was gone, leaving nothing but a cloud of smoke and more tasteful aftershave than Morse had ever remembered Jakes wearing.


End file.
